


Pearls Before Brine

by calamityjack



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Alternate Timeline, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Graham Gore lives (for now), Historical Inaccuracy, Idiots, M/M, non-canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2021-01-02 13:02:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21162086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calamityjack/pseuds/calamityjack
Summary: “Ye ever think of…becoming a newsman?”To compensate for shipwide winter boredom, Fitzjames starts a newspaper.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As absurd as it sounds. My folly is my own.

News travels fast when you're stuck in the ice. No sooner did James Fitzjames in a fit of inspiration suggest to Henry Dundas le Vesconte that a shipwide newspaper edited by Tom Bowline might be just the thing to ease boredom and encourage literacy, than it was positively known throughout the hulls of both ships, sending ripples of nervous disquietude amongst those who couldn't read, and serious competition amongst those who could. As Le Vesconte wasted no time in scuttling above deck to relieve Graham and tell him the news, an eavesdropping Mr. Collins ensured that it was common knowledge by dinner. 

With little to amuse themselves except rum, gossip and the occasional discreet buggering on the orlop, the men (excepting the Marines who distrusted anything they didn't think of themselves) took to the idea like sardines to salt water. Such an outlet for shipwide gossip and other personal grievances--for what else could fill the pages of such a document conceived in the polar winter?--and the promise of a closer look into their officers' minds provided more than enough incentive for the literate to leave piles of application essays, prose, poems and accusatory missives outside of their Captain's door by the next morning. 

"Well, Dundy, we simply can't fit them all in," says James over breakfast, glancing through a particularly vehement denouncement of a hammock neighbor's nightly flatulence. 

Le Vesconte grunts, piling his plate with more rashers. He is notoriously uncommunicative during breakfast. It's like talking to a log, but James finds it far preferable to Graham Gore's endless punning, which is why he usually assigns Graham the morning watch. Later on when Dundy perks up after a dozen biscuits and three cups of coffee he'll be fit for conversation. For now, James can monologue, Le Vesconte can pretend to listen and both are content.

"What appalling grammar. This man has spelled "fart" with two Ts. Maybe he thinks the second one is silent, although his neighbor most certainly is not." 

Le Vesconte almost chokes on his ninth biscuit.

"This one wants to lodge a complain about one of the ship's boys for vomiting on his shoes...What in God's name? This one insists one of our lieutenants mooned him from the mizzenmast--do you know anything about this, Dundy?"

"Of course not," says Le Vesconte. He downs another scalding cup of coffee and then sticks out his tongue to press a cold knife to its surface before rapping the table for more. Bridgens appears, pours, and disappears like Marie Antoinette's long-suffering butler.

"--Complaint, complaint, complaint. The Marines want regular wages again and insist a newspaper might cause "chronic discontentment." As if anyone could be content to begin with."

"I heard it was Fairholme," yawns Le Vesconte, stirring in cream, pastry crumbs and three lumps of sugar until his coffee resembles a very syrupy sludge. "He nearly stuck his arse in the stove yesterday trying to thaw it, did you notice?"

"And look here, this anonymous gentleman wants to suckle at Lady Franklin's "creamy globes" and present her with his "magnetic pole" upon our triumphant return. What do they think a newspaper is? Well it can't be helped. This really won't do and I haven't time to go through all of it. We'll give a few of the officers regular columns--you and Graham--"

"What, me?"

"Yes, Dundy. I need your support. Captain Crozier won't approve of it when he's well--he'll think it a frivolous distraction. We only have a few weeks to get it going. You, Graham, and perhaps Mr. Bridgens--he's handy with a pen. Dr. Stanley can illustrate our issues--a medical review might be in order, you know, teach the men a bit about personal hygiene. God knows I'd prefer not to witness the kind of ungodly sights that appear under fingernails sometimes. It's worse than the war. Perhaps there are a few _Terrors_ who might be interested?"

"Not Lieutenant Little."

"Why not?"

"He’ll have _little_ to say about anything--"

"Dundy, if I want bad puns I'll make you go up and relieve Graham again."

"Please don't, Mr. Collins stares in a most unnerving way. Besides, it's Fairholme's turn. I'm sure he's nearly burned through his epidermis by now. He won't even feel the cold."

"Then keep quiet. Have another biscuit. You know, you're really very tetchy in the mor--burned through his what?"

"His epidermis. The top layer of skin," Le Vesconte picks at his nails. "Mr. Goodsir informed me of it yesterday when Dr. Stanley was snipping my toes."

"I'm not sure you should be thinking about such things, Dundy. Very well, if the men really must have a say we'll let them put grievances in a tin or something and then we could answer a few complaints every week--but that might open a whole Pandora's _Box_."

Le Vesconte munches thoughtfully. 

"If you really want to get Crozier _onboard_, get Jopson to write something. He's clever, so George tells me, and Crozier would do anything for him." 

"Who?"

"Captain Crozier's steward. Jopson."

"Oh yes. Do you know, I've never really noticed him before." 

"That probably means he's good at his job."

"I suppose so," says Fitzjames. "I didn't even know Bridgens existed for the first six months." 

"Then who did you think helped you into your clothes every morning?"

"I don't know, I thought it just happened. Are you _sure_ Francis has a steward?"

"Do you think Captain Crozier would even know if his trousers were on unless he had a steward to remind him?"

"Point taken."

"I don't like eating with Graham," says Le Vesconte with another impressive yawn. "He slurps."

* * *

Edward Little is having an uncommonly good morning. He dreamt very pleasantly of his burly light-draught stallion, Ludwig, and his and Cor’s and Simon’s experimental warmblood crosses nickering neurotically in their stalls. Richard preferred hounds to horses and James, the prude, wanted nothing to do with horse breeding, so the three youngest Little brothers were free to tamper with nature and thunder their hot blooded creations up and down the fox runs.

Besides that, Thomas Jopson is looking particularly delightful hurrying about place settings, so very fine that Edward actually almost smiles when he sees him, and despite rarely speaking before noon, rumbles warmly, "Good morning, Mr. Jopson," and instantly regrets the statement. It is most definitely not a good morning or any kind of morning. The windows outside are pitch black in the throes of November. Jopson is lighting candles. 

But Jopson says, "Good morning, sir," is if it's perfectly balmy and sunny, looking up at him beneath a halo of candlelight and stopping in his tracks, completely arrested by Edward's softened eyes and lips. Jopson's own lovely face blooms into a smile that Edward can't help but start to return with one of his own, one that is quickly nipped in its nascent stages by George Hodgson skittering into the wardroom, jittery as always and yapping some idiotic nonsense about a newspaper and something about Lieutenant Fairholme contracting frostbite on his arse. 

As Lieutenant Irving announces himself in a clipped voice, sits and folds his hands to pray over his ship's biscuit, Edward sinks back into his customary morning glower and attempts to drown himself in marmalade. Jopson allows himself a quick, taut glance backward and slips into the pantry for the silver.

"--completely taken us all by surprise," George is saying. "I can't imagine being anything but delighted at the prospect. I myself once tried my hand at poetry--the odd thing, you know, at school. Bit of amateur stuff, but might come in handy, eh, Lieutenant?"

"What?" says Little.

"Poetry--" says George through a mouthful of sausage. "Might come in handy." 

"What for?" 

"Don't talk with your mouth full," says Irving. 

"For the newspaper, Edward, sir. Captain Fitzjames' newspaper."

"What newspaper?"

"Good God, sir--Edward, sir--I've just told you that Captain Fitzjames has proposed a newspaper!"

"George, you're spraying us with sausage," says John, wiping his face with his napkin. 

"See here now, I haven't--"

"How fares the Captain, Jopson?" interrupts Little as Jopson leans over him to fill his cup.

"I'm optimistic, sir," says Jopson, his breath tickling Edward's neck. "He ate a little this morning, and hopefully it's stayed down. I'll see to him when I've finished the breakfast, sir."

"Should you need anything--" begins Little, and Jopson gives him an inscrutable look, but George has already railed on.

"Billy heard it from a marine who heard it from Mr. Diggle who heard it from Mister Collins who heard it from Lieutenant Le Vesconte: Captain Fitzjames is founding a newspaper. Isn't it simply marvelous?" 

Little looks as though he can't imagine anything worse. 

"But I do hope Captain Fitzjames will keep morale and sober reflection at the forefront of his editorial," says John with some concern. 

"I thought it was a jolly prank, keeping us in the proverbial dark. But now we have the upper hand of them. Did you know, Jopson?" asks Hodgson merrily as the steward refills teacups and passes around post-breakfast cigars. 

"I heard something about it, sir," says Jopson, fastidiously avoiding brushing Lieutenant Little's hand with his own as he proffers a tobacco pouch. Little remains very still. 

"Jopson, lad, I'll wager you could hear a mouse shaving its own whiskers!"

"That is an entirely preposterous statement," says Irving, who takes things very literally. 

"No more preposterous than a starting a newspaper at this time of year," says Little. Jopson's movements slow as he clears the table, betraying his curiosity. 

"Cain's Hairy Mizzenmast, sir," proclaims George in gleeful range of John's scandalized glare. Jopson swiftly turns away and clamps a hand to his mouth to contain his laughter. "What can you mean by such a pronouncement? Do newspapers go in and out of season like raspberries? Can you pluck them from a convenient bush when you grow peckish? Do they--do they grow fuzzy when left too long in the sun?"

"Why," says Little with a thunderous scowl. "Would someone write a newspaper when it's too dark to read?" 

Jopson whimpers from behind his hand and hurries into the pantry. 

George looks across the table in astonishment while John looks like he would much prefer to sink through the deck than endure another moment.

"We have candles, Edward, sir. Oil lamps."

"Consider this, Lieutenant Hodgson," says Little around his pipe. "At some point our candles and oil will run out. They shall run out much faster if everyone is spending the hours reading newspapers." 

George cannot refute the sense of this statement, but looks vastly disappointed.

"And another thing," continues Edward morosely from within a giant cloud of smoke. "How many men aboard? Sixty-five? That's sixty-five candles."

"The men could share." 

"Fumes," continues Edward. "Smoke."

"Now, Lieutenant, that's assuming the very worst--"

"Melting wax," puffs Edward, clacking his pipe. "Fires."

"Yes, but under regulation--"

"Sixty-five candles could burn _Terror_ to her keel _sixty-five times_." 

"My God," whispers Irving, eyes wide.

"And that's not taking into account pipes, matches, the cooking stove, and other substances--" 

"Lieutenant Little," nods Irving sagely. "I think you have the right of it."

"Not to mention our hold full of gunpowder," hums Edward, looking a bit more cheerful at the recollection. "Tell me, Lieutenant, do you think sixty-five candles and a hold full of gunpowder have any business together?"

George, who has wilted a bit, wheedles, "Oh, come now, Edward, it's not easy for me being jovial all the time, you know. Last week I tried to teach the Marines Cassino--they're still laughing at me. And just yesterday I was so terribly bored I bet Mr. Blanky I could fit a dozen preserved grapes in my mouth and nearly choked to death in front of the boatswain."

Edward hears Jopson stifle another delightful laugh from inside the pantry. The sound almost makes his resolve waver. 

"George..."

George senses weakness. "I'll let you borrow my cologne."

Edward sighs as Jopson emerges from the pantry well flushed and with sparkling eyes, and knows the game is lost. 

* * *

Two men emerge from the dead room, one with a glint on his finger and the other with a soft, deprecating little smirk that can mean whatever he chooses.

"You won't hold anything back, now, will you Billy?"

"I've already told you everything I know, Cornelius."

"Hmm," hums Cornelius as they climb the ladder to the heated warmth of the upper decks. "What does Fitzjames want with a newspaper?"

"Beats me," mutters Billy. "Why don't you ask him?"

"I will, if it comes to it."

"My freckled ass, you will."

"I would bet your freckled ass on anything."

While Billy tries to discern whether this is a compliment or a threat, Cornelius adjusts his ideas in a silence that he knows will make Billy fidget and come forth with more information.

"Little still won't talk," says Billy a moment later, true to form. "About the Captain. What's really going on."

"Only an idiot can still be wondering what's keeping Crozier married to his seat of ease. But Lieutenant Little--close-lipped, that one is. Wonder if he's hiding anything worth knowing."

"He must be, First Officer and all."

"That was my thinking."

Billy smiles, gratified and a bit sheepish. "You can't tell from his room. Nothing in there but his journal--and he never writes anything good, just longitude and latitude and ice reports."

"That won't help us."

"He does have a startling amount of books on horses."

"That could be something," muses Cornelius. "No, what we need is a way in. Little will know what Fitzjames is up to, and if Crozier croaks, Little's in charge. He might be the next captain, Billy. Get to know him. Make him trust you. Find out what he wants, what he's afraid of, what he won't dare tell anyone, even himself--"

"He won't talk, I'd swear it."

"He doesn't have to. You can tell just as much about a man from what he _doesn't_ talk about. More, sometimes. Just get to know him, Billy. I gave you that ring, didn't I?"

"What about Jopson?"

"What about him?" 

"He'll never give it up about the Captain. And he's jumped up, I'm telling you. And he knows something--more than something."

"I'll wager your freckled ass Jopson knows more than any man on this expedition. He'd certainly be worth something in what's to come. Not as an ally, maybe, but a--let's say an unknowing source of information."

"Well he won't talk to you either," says Billy jealously. "He barely talks to me. He's in league with the enemy." 

"I'll look into it. Just keep yourself to yourself. Keep sniffing around."

"What do you care if Fitzjames starts a newspaper?" flares Billy in a lurching moment of suspicion. "What's it to you?"

"We've been sitting here two years. He's never done it before. Either he's trying to hide something or trying to get something--and I want to know which. I want to know what I'm going to lose by it."

"Maybe it's just a newspaper."

"Billy, nothing is ever _just_ a newspaper."

* * *

"Psst!" says a voice from the pantry. "You!"

Jopson halts, carrying an unpleasant armload of vomit-stained linens. 

"Me?"

"Yes, you! Johnson!"

"It's Jopson."

"Jopson!" The door creaks open to reveal Captain Fitzjames hiding among the cutlery. Jopson approaches with caution. 

“Captain Fitzjames?” 

“Please, no names."

"Sir, did you _walk_ here?"

"I have a proposition for you.” 

Jopson looks intensely alarmed.

"A _business_ proposition," Fitzjames amends, and pulls him inside.

* * *

"Well it’s not very sexy, is it?” scoffs Captain Fitzjames, waggling Jopson’s latest entry, _“Brass for the Top Brass: Don’t Wait for a _ _ Busy Steward —Learn to Put On an Epaulette  Yourself!" _ under his nose.

Jopson becomes the first person in history to deferentially roll his eyes.

“With all due respect sir, you expressed a desire for the addition of a domestic advice column—"

“Yes, but I was thinking more along the lines of,_ “Sexiest way to Wear a Greatcoat,” _or _“Drink like Nelson, Eat like Aubrey,”_ or _“Grab and Grunt: Ten Simple Phrases to make Native Women Swoon.”_ Also, this title is bordering on impertinent. Isn’t it your job to help officers with their epaulettes and all other states of dress--or undress, as the case may be?" 

“But sir, I could attend to my other duties much more efficiently if the officers actually knew how to perform a few minor tasks like pinning on their own epaulettes or buttoning a greatcoat. Besides,_ “Three Polishes to Make Your Buttons Gleam,” “Stop Slops from Chafing,”_ and _“Stitches for the Beginning Clothier”_ went over particularly well with _Terror’s_ officers last week. Lieutenant Little was quite animated in his praise for _"You Have Fingers Too, Learn How to Use Them.”_

“Lieutenant Little is about as animated as a bucket,” Fitzjames waves his hand impatiently. “No, no, Mr. Jopson, what we need is sex appeal. Why can’t you write something people actually want to read? Like _“How To Woo a Woebegone Mermaid.” _You’re certainly talented enough. Besides, we have a duty to our readers to be all things dashing and interesting. I mean, "_You Have Fingers Too, Learn How to Use Them???"_ No one gives three figs for unironic advice like that. Come now, Jopson. I've given you two weeks to get into the swing of things but now I really must put my foot down. _The Erebus Times_ won't stand for such nonsense and nor will I."

"Sir, considering Terror's position as the flagship, not to mention our Captain's residence, might I once again venture to suggest that the title include both ships? Perhaps, _The Terror and Erebus Chronicle?_”"

"Impossible, Jopson," snorts Fitzjames. "What kind of a name is that for a newspaper? But back to the point, if you please." 

“Sir, you hired me—or I should say, commandeered me as I gather I’m not being paid extra for this—to write a domestic advice column for your winter newspaper so the men have something with which to occupy themselves beyond the…er, usual activities. As a steward, my range of expertise is rather limited to buttons and place settings."

“That’s about as appealing as Mr. Diggle’s bare arse, Jopson. But to the first point, what self-respecting man wants to read about polishing silver and the virtues of lye soap? No offense to your noble profession, of course. Besides, an officer is not required to know how to put on an epaulette. I can’t recall ever encountering such a difficulty in my life.”

After years in the service, Jopson wouldn’t dare call himself a steward without having perfected the art of a passive-aggressive comment.

“With permission, sir, there are certain officers aboard—I won’t say who—who might find it useful to actually learn such a skill as putting on their own epaulette. In the unhappy event that I or another steward should lose their fingers to frostbite, of course."

“There’s no need to get snooty, Jopson. The point is, between Dundy’s _“Fashion for Fops,”_ my_ “Adventures of Tom Bowline”_ serial, Graham’s _“The Arctic Sportsman”_ and Lieutenant Irving’s _“Habits for the Holy,”_ we don’t really need another column about fastidious self-care.”

“Then I wonder you asked me at all, sir,” says Jopson.

“I asked you to write an advice column—a domestic advice column. Everyone knows that “domestic advice” is a euphemism for sex.”

“I’m sure I don’t know it, sir. I thought you genuinely wanted people to know how to sew on a button, which if you ask me, is a far more useful skill than _“How to Woo a Woebegone Mermaid.”_’

“Jopson, this is supposed to be fun, not useful. Make it snappy. Maybe encourage an “ask-answer” type of thing. The men can apply to you for advice on love-related difficulties and you can answer—you know, _“How to Write to Your Sweetheart and Delicately Remind her of the Dimensions of Your Tom Johnson.”_’

“That’s a bit of a mouthful, sir.”

“Well, just make it saucy.”

“Do I have to, sir?”

“Yes,” says Fitzjames. “It’s for the good of the men, Jopson. Just think of that. And you’ll be helping the Captain as well—no doubt your wireless aerials have picked up a something-or-nothing about Sofia Cracoft. He might be able to learn something that will aid in his conquest.”

“I believe you’re bribing me, sir,” says Jopson.

“Shamelessly. But you’ll write it anyway, Jopson, and say no more about it. I should like it on my desk by Friday at six bells. You can send it over with Lieutenant Little.”

“But sir,” Jopson goes bright red to the tips of his ears. “What if he _reads_ it?”

“I didn’t even know Lieutenant Little _could_ read. Not to worry Jopson, if you’re so prudish you can use a _nom de plume_—but I must ask you to avoid the moniker “Tom Bowline” as it is previously reserved and we wouldn’t want to confuse things.”

“Not to worry, sir, I wouldn’t use it even if it were available.”

“I will ignore that, Jopson, as I have no wish to flog the only man standing between Francis and certain death by drowning in his own bodily fluids. Perhaps reading him some Tom Bowline would rouse his spirits a little—I believe you’re familiar with the 10,000 word poem I—that is, Tom— penned after our ordeal at Chinkiang—”

“I’m afraid I haven’t read it, sir,” says Jopson briskly.

“Oh? I must say, Jopson, I am quite shocked. I am almost certain I left Francis a few copies for his collection.”

“You most certainly did, sir, but I’m terribly afraid he—he lost them, sir.”

“Lost them?!” Fitzjames almost shrieks.

“Yes, sir,” says Jopson.

“Well, I shall provide him with new ones, and be sure to keep them under lock and key, Jopson. I only have a dozen left after the initial circulation. _Lost_ them!”

“May I go now, sir?” Asks Jopson as Fitzjames continues his indignant squawking.

“Yes, yes, I suppose so. By the way, I congratulate you on the state of your fingernails. My men could learn a thing or two from your hygienic habits. However do you keep them so neat?”

“With all due respect, sir, that was supposed to be next week's entry, but under the circumstances...”

"You are dismissed, Mr. Jopson."

"Thank you very much, sir.”

* * *

“I am terribly put out,” says Le Vesconte, sounding anything but, yet seeking the consolation of an eighth biscuit all the same as he tries to make frustratedly stabbing at his paper look fashionably nonchalant. “I can’t come up with a complimentary hat for officers’ winter dress uniforms.”

“I was not aware that such a thing existed,” mutters Graham Gore, annoyed at being interrupted from describing the rules of three-legged snowshoe races. 

“Yes, but Naval regulation dress is so terribly unsuited to what function calls for and I do despise welsh wigs. Why can’t I be warm and look fabulous?” 

“You can’t just invent a new dress uniform.”

“Oh, can’t I? Can’t I, Graham? But you have a point. James has demanded I get this to him by Friday. I’m not sure I can come up with an entire winter wardrobe by then,” moans Le Vesconte, stilling his fingers before they can reach for another biscuit.

“But—”

“Stop right there. I know what you’re thinking—why this call for hats when we already possess the brimmed cap for undress and the cocked hat for formal dress?”

“That’s not what I—"

“I won’t hear a word in favor of cocked hats. They’re a relic of the 18th century and they make me feel like a geriatric pigeon with a wart on its head. They’re terribly out of style and I won’t give them consequence by discussing them. Don’t you agree?”

“I’ve honestly never thought about it,” says Graham. 

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes things don't go according to plan.

The day before the next hotly-anticipated installment of _The Erebus Times_ (Volume 1, Issue 7) is released, Graham Gore is eaten by a giant bear.

Accounts differ as to what actually occurred. Some say he was on his way to _Terror_ for a routine meeting with Lieutenant Little. Others recall him strapping himself to a sledge and declaring that he’d “prove them all wrong” by becoming the first man to set a one-man long-distance sledging record before running off with a Spartan yell in the general direction of King William Island.

In _Terror’s_ wardroom, Little, slathering his biscuit with a truly unprecedented amount of marmalade, stares at Jopson’s arse while ruminating on the peerless stupidity rife in First Officers these days. In the corner, Hodgson weeps over his music grinder and Irving attempts to capture Gore’s image for posterity in a mediocre portrait which more closely resembles Neptune after a bath.

In _Erebus’_ Great Cabin, Le Vesconte reflects mournfully on Gore’s unfortunate accident and seeks to assuage his grief by consuming an entire batch of Mr. Bridgens’ raspberry preserve scones.

Fitzjames, deeply sorrowed by the loss of his second, barely touches a thing.

“Being eaten by a bear is a bad way to go at the best of times,” he sighs, shaking his head. “Well, well. Poor Graham, but it can’t be helped. We must all soldier on, eh?”

At this moment, Dundy helpfully chooses to recollect that it was most likely James’ insistence that Graham “Perform some heroic athletic feat to spice things up for _The Sportsman_,” that led to his untimely demise.

“Well, it wasn’t my fault he chose to take it literally,” says Fitzjames.

“I suppose we’ll just have to grin and bear it,” adds Le Vesconte, dusting a small mountain of crumbs off his lap.

* * *

The issue, containing the last and final installment of _“The Arctic Sportsman”_ is released anyway the next morning, along with a flowering _“In Memorium”_ page to the late Lieutenant Gore penned by Captain Fitzjames himself, and followed by a simpler, but far finer piece of prose by one J. Bridgens, Humble Steward, entitled, _“Now He Sleeps.”_ Both extol Graham’s virtues and heroic sacrifice to varying effect.

With the release of the newspaper, the mood belowdecks perks up instantly. Everyone is far more interested in reading the new and deliciously naughty addition, _“The Secret Admirer”_ than in contemplating the gruesome death of one of their own officers. Gaggles of able seamen and Marines (faking apathy) stand thronged about the precious copies, while alternating gales of laughter, lewd commentary and hushed whispers rise and fall like the wind beating the spars above. Since Mr. Bridgens can only write so fast, only five copies are currently included in each issue and as a result, each one is passed around, ripped, spilled on and generally mangled beyond recognition.

Nevertheless, when the Erebites are through, they draw straws and some poor sod is chosen to run frantically without permission across the ice with two copies stuffed down his jumper to distribute amongst the Terrors, who practically rip them to shreds in the ensuing excitement.

Most unfortunately, he never returns, but being unpopular, his disappearance is not noted belowdecks until the next morning, when Fitzjames and Le Vesconte are taking their usual breakfast together in the secretly welcome absence of Graham’s unappetizing table manners. Fitzjames has his personal copy laid out in front of him, flipping through it with the air of a father observing his first born child for the very first time.

“_The Secret Admirer: A Column for The Discerning Romantic _by Clemantine Sixbells. It’s really rather splendid. Who knew he had it in him. I’m not convinced Jopson’s ever actually seen a naked woman by this description but I suppose I should be thankful he’s not waxing poetic about buttons anymore. Look at this—_“A Discreet Discourse on Tongues,”_ _“Tips for The Newly-Wed Gentleman,” “What She Really Wants But Won’t Ever Tell…”_ Of course, these could all apply to creatively-inclined gentlemen as well—

“What?”

“Pansies, Dundy,” elucidates Fitzjames to Le Vesconte’s confused glance.

_As if he’s not secretly one himself,_ thinks Le Vesconte, conveniently ignoring his own natural inclinations.

“It’s really quite ingenious,” cackles James a little too gleefully for propriety's sake. “They’ll go absolutely mad over it.”

“You’ve changed your tune.”

“What about?”

“Lady Franklin’s creamy globes. I thought you wanted to censor this kind of thing.”

“Are you complaining?”

“Perish the thought.”

Fitzjames considers for a moment. “Dundy, you’re my oldest friend. Apart from Edward Charlewood and James Gambier of course. Oh, and my half-brother Will. I always forget him.”

“I'm flattered.”

“In any case, you know me well enough to know that I never do things by halves.”

“I have witnessed several events that confirm such a statement. That cheetah incident—”

“We don’t need to go into the particulars.”

“I still have the scars.”

“You scratched your hand on a nail, Dundy. That cheetah never even came near you. Don’t think I haven’t heard you telling people how you were mauled to within an inch of your life.”

Le Vesconte is unperturbed. “Not to mention your short-lived career on the stage.”

“First of all,” interrupts James loudly. “We’ve got to keep up circulation.”

“Remember _Chrononhotonthologus?_”

“Dundy, we made a pact. You swore never to speak that name.”

“I don’t see why you’re so embarrassed about it anyway.”

“We shan't be discussing it.”

“Or when you dressed up as a beggar for a week to fool Charlewood and made us all throw oranges at you.”

“That was rather good—but I hasten to remind you that you’re treading on _thin ice_.”

“Oho,” says Le Vesconte.

“Thank you. But you really ought to recall that I happen to know several things about your ancient past you’d rather not have generally known. And another thing—no one really wants to read about the fashion _faux-pas_ of cocked hats.”

“Well I notice you’ve thrown yours away since my last tirade.”

“Keep your wig on,” sighs James. “What I mean is, we have to have something that appeals to the men, not just the officers. You and I are fond of dressing well, but I’ve already heard several comments about your column being somewhat “out of touch” with the common A.B.”

“I say,” says Le Vesconte indignantly. “You’re very free with criticism. As if Tom Bowline rescuing a Mesopotamian princess were anything but the most improbable fantasy.”

“Steady on!” yelps James. “_Tom Bowline_ is based almost word for word upon my own life experiences—granted with a little artistic license, but—”

“All I remember about Mesopotamia is that you were almost kidnapped by the Sultan and had to dress up as a prostitute to escape detection.”

“Your memory is faulty. Besides, I don't even think Mesopotamia _has_ a Sultan.”

“Either way, I happen to know you were propositioned on the street twice and highly considered both offers.”

“Not both—one of them had a gold tooth.”

“I have a gold tooth.”

“And you should thank it soundly I haven’t told people how you got it.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“I would. That tooth is all that’s standing between you and the tarnishment of your dear, dandified reputation.”

Le Vesconte takes the trouble to exclaim, “Good Lord!” so James considers himself safe for the present.

“I still don’t see what a romantic advice column has to do with an expedition,” says Le Vesconte. “There’s no point to it out here. It’ll just make the men itch for home and—well—pursue other avenues of relief. Just yesterday evening I happened to be standing by Mr. Collins when I felt this enormous—”

“I really don’t wish to envision your nocturnal conquests, Dundy—intentional or otherwise.”

“You’re one to talk. At any rate, it seems very unfair on poor Jopson.”

“Don’t let him fool you, he’s enjoying it,” says Fitzjames. “Why? Has he been expressing discontent?”

“How should I know? I haven’t spoken ten words to him together in two years beyond “Pass the salt.” I say, Fitzy, wipe that ravenous look off your face. You look like you’re going to eat him alive if he gives you bad press. You’re going to give me a nervous ulcer.”

“Don’t get frisky with me, Henry Dundas. You’ve never had the energy to experience a nervous complaint in your life. All the same, I think you’re becoming a little overly fond of bureaucratic power. Since when do you give _me_ orders?”

“Since you became a despotic ink-stained tyrant.”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic.”

“Besides, I’m still bored,” sighs Le Vesconte. “And we’re not in a bureaucratic hierarchy.”

“Well I can’t help that. Take up knitting.”

“I don’t want to knit.”

“Dundy, you don’t have an ulcer, you _are_ an ulcer. Stop whinging. You think you have problems? My first lieutenant was just eaten by a bear and Captain Crozier might be dead any day for all we know. I’ve got my entire reputation on the line here and you don’t hear me moaning about it.”

“Don't I?"

"Sirs," Bridgens appears in the doorway. "Pardon me, sirs, but they've just found the Carpenter's Mate--Mr. Watson."

"Found him where?"

"Out on the ice, sirs. About a quarter league away. It appears he came from _The Terror_, Captain. "

"I don't recall sending anyone to _Terror_."

"They're taking him down now, sir. Or what's left of him. Mr. Goodsir wants to perform an autopsy." 

"Just brilliant," mutters Fitzjames, wiping his mouth with his napkin. “Go on, Bridgens, I'll be there in a moment."

"First Graham, now Watson," says Le Vesconte. 

"Send someone over for Little while I'm below, Dundy."

"Certainly."

"The solemn truth is, this whole horrid business has finally made me realize something that’s been eluding me a long time.”

“What? What?" 

James takes a deep breath. “That to get something worth having you have to risk everything.”

It takes Le Vesconte a moment to absorb this and by that time James has already leapt up, gathered his papers and dramatically thrown himself out of the great cabin.

“What does _that_ mean? What do you want?” yells Le Vesconte into the passage way. Because James is his best friend, he even gives him the compliment of raising his voice, which is really putting himself out of his way.

* * *

Thomas, engrossed in scrubbing out a pail of the Captain's latest excrement with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, nearly jumps out of his skin when someone clears their throat behind him. He whips around to find Edward Little looming rather awkwardly in the doorway. 

"Sorry, sir. Was there something you needed in the Wardroom?" 

"No, Jopson. I...wanted to be sure you were alright. To be sure you...weren't upset by this sorry business." 

"This matter of Lieutenant Gore has left everyone's nerves a bit frayed, sir." 

"Indeed," says Little. "A good officer," the compliment clearly costs him some effort. "A bit rash."

"Yes. But we all of us have faults, I suppose."

"Indeed," says Little again. He is silent a long moment, his eyes dark and unreadable. Without warning, he suddenly steps completely into the Great Cabin. 

"Sir, the Captain--" Jopson steals a glance at the unmoving bundle of blankets that is Crozier.

"It's only--" and Little, to Thomas' shock, reaches to curl his fingers around his wrist. Thomas blushes full to the roots of his hair. 

"You've a spot of ink. On your wrist." 

"Oh. Well, I've been writing, sir." 

Little furrows his thick brows and then his lips curve and his teeth bare slightly in a wicked little grin that makes a whiskey-like heat shoot into Jopson's belly before nearly flipping out of his mouth and onto the floor.

"Have you now?" His deep voice vibrates through Thomas' body. "Anything interesting?"

"Well that--that depends on your perspective, sir."

His mouth is very close and he keeps his fingers looped gently around Thomas' wrist. Thomas can feel the heat emanating from him and wishes with all his soul that his hands weren't covered in another man's watery vomit, but Little doesn't seem to notice. 

"I'm to make my report to _Erebus_ tonight. Wanted to tell you," says Little as though in a trance, his eyes boring deep into Thomas' own as though he can't get enough of them, so different they are from his, a clear, light jade. Their foreheads, feverish, almost touch. 

"Why is that, sir?" 

"There's been another incident. A Mr. Watson on _Erebus_." 

Thomas shivers and whispers with sticking lips,

"Be careful, sir."

"Edward."

_"Edward." _

A sudden commotion in the galley makes Little jolt upright and Thomas' ears burn still hotter. 

"What the Devil," mutters Edward, and he casts Thomas an earnest, regretful look before charging back through the door. 

Thomas returns to his bucket for about three seconds before tearing after him.

* * *

“Turn back to _The Arctic Sportsman_—there was something about lassoing a reindeer?”

“Come off it, mate, I put in a request for “_Secret Admirer_”—I need to know how ter get your pecker back up. Asking for a friend.”

“Clemantine Sixbells ain’t gonna put _that _in her column. She’s a proper lady, she is.”

“She’s also ten-to-one a man. If there was any ladies aboard I’d’ve found one, you mark me words.” 

“There’s women what served aboard afore.”

“Could explain why this expedition’s been full of bad luck.”

“Might be a man in disguise. Just ugly. Any one of us could be her—” everyone looks around uneasily at this pronouncement.

“Nah, I think she’s beautiful, is Clemantine. A proper lady. Not like you lot.” 

“They finally took out that damned sewing thing.” 

“Eh, they didn’t put my grievance in,” grouses Frederick Hornby, turning to the bottom of the last page marked _“Petty Grievances and General Complaints.”_ “Bout Master Bates leaving his wet sock in me bunk.” 

“You fink they even read them grievances or they just want us to fink they do?”

“Leave it Fred, I want to hear the latest _Tom Bowline,” _hoots Charlie “Big Johnson” Johnson. “He’s still got ter rescue that fiery Mess pot princess from the palace—”

“Least you get a real bed, Fred,” sighs "Tin Can" George J. Cann, thinking sadly of his own rat-chewed hammock. 

“I’ll bet it smells like your mum’s you-know-what, Hornby,” sniffs Edward Genge, Billy Gibson’s less illustrious colleague.

“Say that again to my face, you jaundiced pansy! If you don’t shut your gob, I’ll thrash you to a bloody pulp!”  


“You hairy sod! You uncultured swine! I bet your mum picks her arse!” at which point Fred leaps on the unfortunate Genge and starts thrashing him to a bloody pulp. 

The other seamen are thrilled to finally get the chance to exercise their mob mentality, and form a cacophonic circle around them, whooping, jeering, spitting and cussing with savage glee. 

“Clear out, clear out, belay that! WHAT IS THIS?” roars Lieutenant Little, blasting through the galley.

Scowling, he burls through a ring of marines who’ve been watching the proceedings without lifting a finger, prompting an offended corporal to yell, “I’ll be reporting this, you mark my words!” before remembering that he would, in fact, be reporting it to Little himself. 

Little successfully shoves his way through and wrangles Hornby, now sitting on the steward’s chest and gleefully beating him senseless, to his feet. The other men fall dead silent at Little’s expression, black with rage. One of the ship’s boys is crying inconsolably. 

“There will be no brawling on my ship!” roars Little, shaking him furiously with one hand so his feet leave the ground. “Not while the Captain’s ill. Is that clear, sailor?” 

“Yes, sir!” whimpers his captive. 

“What’s your name?” 

“The name’s Hornby, sir. I’m your mate. We known each other the best part of three years.”

“Ah—didn’t recognize you,” coughs Edward, thrown off his guard.

“Me friends call me Horny Fred.” 

Little practically paws the deck like an enraged musk ox. 

“That’s absurd. Six lashes for the both of you after Mr. Genge has seen Dr. Macdonald.” 

“Please sir!”

“No,” commands Little.

“But sir! It were Captain Fitzjames’ newspaper what set us off.”

“You’ll be coming with me to _Erebus _this evening and we’ll see what Captain Fitzjames makes of this while Mr. Thomas ties a cat. Give me that paper.” 

“Yes, sir,” says Hornby, handing it over. 

Little stuffs it in his breast pocket.

“Anyone throws a punch, it’s twenty lashes and holystones for all.” 

Genge limps in the general direction of the sick bay and the men disperse, eyeing Little with a mixture of newfound fear and respect. 

Thomas Jopson, having observed the whole of the exchange from behind the stove, looks down and discovers that he has a massive erection.

“On my honor, sir!” yaws Horny Fred, following Little like an excited collie sorely in need of a bath. “I’ve always felt it was me life’s destiny to take part in some great adventure or t’other. I s’pose this’ll be it.” 

“Right, well don’t get excitable,” says Little, watching him don his slops, uncomfortably aware that in a few moments Hornby will most likely fulfill his life’s destiny as a human meat shield. The least he can do is arm him and issue a general warning. “Take this rifle. That bear might still be around.” 

He looks for Jopson, to say (or stare) a goodbye, but the steward is nowhere to be found.

* * *

It isn’t until Little has wrangled the mate and two other unwitting potential victims out onto the ice that Horny Fred elects to inform him,

“Lieutenant Little, sir, I've never shot a rifle in me life.”

"Fucking hell," groans Edward.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> A tip of the hat to the brilliant Vegetas with the Little Brothers’ bizarre horse-crosses and her ingenious Ed Little backstory in general.


End file.
